


for love or money

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Developing Relationship, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mission Fic, Q Backstory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-09-28 12:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10101845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: Elliott laughed. His eyes sparkled in the light, and Bond realized—he was enjoying himself. The conversation, though serious, flowed easily, back and forth between the two of them, as simple and as clear as if they’d known each other for years. Bond found himself relaxing into it, drawn to the lovely man seated opposite him. He hoped, for the first time, that Elliottdidn’tintend to flee. There was something incredibly attractive about him—about his smile, his demeanour, his entireself. Bond wanted more.(or, the one where Q isn't Q (not yet), and he and Bond meet under rather different circumstances)





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt from tumblr user fand0mfan; it was meant to be about celebrity crushes, but it sort of...ran away, if you will. I hope you still enjoy!

A voice, familiar and friendly, cut through the noise of the crowded street and caught Bond’s attention. Never mind the din of central London, Bond had always had a gift for picking up stray voices. He listened intently, localizing and tracking, until he recognized the source: up ahead, a bistro with street seating. Bond approached carefully.

“There has to be someone,” Moneypenny, the one Bond had recognized, was saying. She sounded excited—even during their brief affair, Bond had never heard her so animated. “Everyone has at least _one_ crush on a celebrity.”

“No, there doesn’t, and I don’t,” her companion bit back. Unknown, male, late thirties at the oldest. Bond caught sight of Moneypenny and her probable date just up ahead. They were positioned at a table opposite one another so that, between the two of them, they could see everything. That being said, neither seemed to be paying close attention to their surroundings; Moneypenny should have been able to see Bond, but her eyes passed over him as if he were invisible. Interesting.

“Come on,” Moneypenny pressed her companion. She grinned, open and knowing. “Oh, wait, I can probably guess.”

The man hunched over and mumbled something that might have been, “Please don’t.”

“I seem to recall you prefer your men tall, strapping and blond,” Moneypenny said. “Don’t find many of those around here, though, do you?”

Bond knew an opening when he saw one.

“You rang?” he said, approaching from behind the man. The man—boy, really, given his mop of hair and generally disheveled clothing—jumped at his voice, but Moneypenny just laughed. Of course she had known he was there. She was damn good at her job.

“James,” she said, eyes twinkling mischievously, “I didn’t see you there.”

“Hello, Eve,” he replied. He turned to the boy. Sharp features, inquisitive eyes—if only he were just a little older, Bond mused. “Hello,” he said, putting on the smile that tended to get him places, “I’m afraid we haven’t met. The name’s Bond—James Bond.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” the boy said, declining to introduce himself. Up close his voice was sharper. Bond liked it. “Boyfriend?” he asked Moneypenny.

“No,” she answered tersely. To Bond, she said, “James, this is Elliott. He’s an old friend of mine.”

“Elliott…?” Bond asked. He didn’t remember Moneypenny talking about an Elliott, but they didn’t tend to talk much about such things in their line of work.

The boy—Elliott—smiled tightly and said nothing, but Moneypenny cut in, “I thought you were out of town.”

Bond flashed a smile just as tight as Elliott’s. “Just got back in,” he said. It was true, after a fashion. He’d just gotten out of debriefing. He’d been gone for six months—a time he’d rather forget at the bottom of a bottle or five.

“Sit down, have a drink with us,” Moneypenny said.

“I’ll need something stronger than that,” Bond replied, nodding at their fruity iced drinks.

“Don’t we all,” Elliott muttered.

“Let’s head up the street, then,” Moneypenny suggested. “We can get a booth in the back at Moore’s.”

Bond and Elliott took in a sharp breath simultaneously.

“I should go, really,” Elliott said, standing abruptly. He smashed his knee against the table and winced.

“Elliott,” Moneypenny said, something of an exaggerated whine in her voice. Her eyes flickered to Bond: _help me keep him here_.

“You must let me buy you a drink,” Bond said, putting on his smoothest voice. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Have you,” Elliott said, voice flat.

“Besides,” Bond teased, “if it’s two on one, Eve can hardly pester you about your love life.”

 _Or lack thereof_ , Bond guessed. Given Moneypenny’s invitation, Bond doubted this was a date as he’d first assumed. For such an attractive boy, Elliott seemed to carry himself in an awkward way, as if he didn’t know what to do with his body. It was a damn shame.

Elliott smiled slightly, the redness in his face receding somewhat. “You have a point,” he said. “Fine. But I do have to get to work this evening.”

“Oh?” Bond asked, snatching up the conversational torch as he handed Elliott his jacket. “What do you do?”

* * *

Elliott, as it happened, was a programmer. He worked for a subsidiary of an American company here in London. He knew Eve from when they were children, though they’d found each other again recently through a mutual friend. Short, succinct, boring.

Elliott, Bond strongly suspected, was an adept liar.

Bond found no tells in Elliott’s demeanor, but that didn’t mean much when they’d only just met. There was something _off_ about Elliott—part of it was his defensiveness, part of it was his brilliance—and Bond did believe him to be brilliant—but part of it was something else, something Bond suspected Elliott was trying very hard to hide.

When Elliott finally made his escape, Moneypenny laughed into her martini and cracked her neck.

“What do you think of him?” she asked, stirring her olives through the vodka. They had indeed picked a booth near the back of Moore’s. Elliott had been next to Moneypenny, his features half-lit in the low light. He had quite the profile. Bond might have been enamoured of the boy were he not keeping so many secrets.

“Elliott?” Bond asked, letting his façade—the one reserved for civilians—slip ever so slightly. “Where’d you actually meet him?”

Moneypenny’s smile widened. “I thought he might have had you fooled,” she said. “He is really an old friend of mine, though there’s no mutual friend. He works with us.”

Bond straightened at that. “Oh?”

Moneypenny hummed as she said, “New hire. Brought in from Five, if you can believe it.”

“When did Five come out of the Bronze Age and start hiring programmers?” Bond asked.

“They haven’t. Elliott’s got a brother who was pressuring him into signing up. He picked Six to be contrary.”

Bond snorted. That seemed precisely the kind of thing Elliott would do, based on the short impression he’d received. The boy didn’t seem like much of a family type—or too interested in other people. He seemed to like to talk about his machines more than anything.

“They put him in Q Branch?” Bond asked, expecting the answer to be _yes_.

Moneypenny shook her head. “I assume, but I’m not sure,” she said. “Ever since Elliott was brought on—a few weeks ago, now—he, M, and Boothroyd have been thick as thieves.” She took a sip of her drink. “No one’s seen what he’s working on.” Bond made a face. “No, not even me.”

“Says the woman who knows more about Six than anyone,” Bond said.

Moneypenny swatted at him. “Don’t sweet-talk me, _dear_. In all seriousness, I have no idea. I was hoping you’d seen him before. ”

“Didn’t you say you two are friends?”

“ _Old_ friends,” Moneypenny clarified. “We were children, and it’s been years. You sure you’ve never met him?”

Bond shook his head. “New to me,” he admitted, “but I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”

“Do,” Moneypenny advised, “and be _nice_ , for a change.”

“Oh?”

Moneypenny made a face, a cross between a frown and a smirk. “You're his type,” she said. “You break his heart, you break an asset, and if I’m right, this one’s a big one.”

“Hitching your wagon, are you?”

“Maybe,” Moneypenny said. “But you haven’t been down to Q Branch.”

“Oh?”

“Boothroyd’s made quite a few changes,” Moneypenny said. Bond arched an eyebrow. “I know, I didn’t believe it, either. I’ve got a feeling Elliott’s behind it.”

Bond nodded and finished off his drink. Elliott. He’d need to do some investigating.

* * *

Access (unauthorized) to MI6 personnel files fed Bond a full name: Elliott Hawthorne. No listed kin or mention of the MI5 brother, which meant that someone had falsified the form, or else Moneypenny had lied about the brother. Standard height and weight data; no attached work history or background. Elliott was a ghost.

Bond smiled at the screen. Elliott was likely responsible for the complete lack of accessible information. If he was half as good a programmer as Bond supposed—which was to say, very good—he’d gotten in early, if not at the very beginning.

“What are you hiding?” Bond murmured, nursing a shot of whiskey. Elliott’s picture stared back at him blankly, unmoving. He looked cold in the photograph. There was no softness, just the obvious sense of superiority and calm that Bond had seen earlier. Bond leaned back and wondered aloud, “What makes you tick?”

* * *

“What can you tell me about Elliott Hawthorne?” Bond asked, sliding into an occupied, well-lit booth in the corner shop the very next afternoon. Though he was sure Tanner hadn’t seen him coming, he didn’t so much as flinch at the sound of Bond’s voice.

“Classified,” Tanner said around a mouthful of fish and chips. He wiped his greasy fingers on a napkin. “None of your business,” he added. “Hello to you, too, by the way.”

“Come on,” Bond said.

“Don’t pull the ‘how long have we known each other’ card,” Tanner warned. He took a drink of his water, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. Bond watched him carefully.

“Boothroyd’s redecorating, or so I hear,” he said. “Anything that changes his old ways is something worth knowing about.”

Tanner pulled a wry smile and replied, “You would know something about that, wouldn’t you?” Bond had the grace not to smart at the barb. “I mean it. Let it go.”

“I met him,” Bond said.

“Eve told me,” Tanner replied. “She also told me you’d be coming my way.”

Bond looked out the window to the busy streets.

“I don’t trust him,” he said.

“You and me both,” Tanner replied amicably. Bond swiveled to look at him again, only to find Tanner shoving another bite into his mouth. “See,” Tanner said, swallowing, “if something’s too good to be true, it isn’t true.”

“You think the kid’s an informant?” Bond asked, leaning in closer.

Tanner shook his head and said, “I think he’s playing us, sure. Not maliciously.” Bond waited. “He’s brilliant—you haven’t seen his application or his previous work, but I have, and he’s smarter than anyone else we’ve had in decades. He’s the type that goes freelance, or worse. He won’t, though—I’m assuming Eve told you about the brother.”

“In Five, yes,” Bond confirmed.

“Right,” Tanner continued, “well family’s probably enough to keep this one in check and not running off with the Russians, but he’s not with us out of a sense of pride in Queen and Country like you and I are. No, I think he’s here because he’s bored. As soon as he gets his kicks, he’ll be gone again, and we’ll be back to square one.”

* * *

Tanner’s words carried Bond to Vauxhall. He needed archive access—Bond trusted Elliott even less now. If he ingratiated himself with Boothroyd, obtained access to all of the prototypes and systems, and left, then bored or not he’d be a liability. Bond might even be sent after him. Bond rarely gathered intel on prospective targets ahead of time, but just this once, he felt he’d be remiss not to. First, a trip to Q Branch. Then, down to the physical double-0 section. Down there, he could work on the safest computer he knew—his own, in his own office—and get started digging. With these goals in mind, Bond stalked the halls with a purpose. People moved out of his way on instinct; when they recognized him, they all but fled. No one wanted to get in the way of a double-0 on a mission.

He headed straight for the lifts upon arrival and punched the button for Q Branch. The lifts took him down into the depths of Vauxhall; all of the labs were down there, buried under bedrock and gravel. Boothroyd had always liked to work deep underground, much to Bond’s chagrin. He’d spent enough time in dimly-lit, poorly-ventilated areas to last him a lifetime.

When the lift doors opened, however, the sight that greeted Bond was not the usual musty brick and incandescent lighting. Someone had installed brighter, cleaner lights and a set of sealed, bulletproof glass doors accessible only by keycard. Bond swiped his, impressed. Elliott had been busy, it seemed. Bond doubted Boothroyd had come up with this on his own.

All around, Bond spotted _new_ : headpieces, computers, workspaces; all things Boothroyd would have never put in if left to his own devices. He’d always been more of an old-school character—a _Charge of the Light-Brigade_ sort, the type who romanticized their work and was always calling things _delightful_. Bond liked him in the way one likes doddering relatives or small children who aren’t one’s own.

Bond plastered a false smile on his face: there, at the front of the room, was Boothroyd himself, frowning at a series of monitors. There, beside him, was _Elliott_.

“Oh, 007!” Boothroyd called, his face brightening upon catching sight of Bond, whose own smile eased somewhat. It was hard to be false with Boothroyd, a man who couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper bag. Bond approached and went, as usual, to shake his hand. Elliott stared at him, his shock apparent. “Ah, my boy, I missed you yesterday. How goes it?” Boothroyd asked, clasping Bond tightly.

“As well as could be expected,” Bond said. Boothroyd offered him a piteous smile. “It’s good to see you. Love what you’ve done with the place.” Bond made a show of glancing around, deliberately not looking at Elliott.

Boothroyd laughed that booming, jovial laugh of his, and said, “Oh, dear boy, none of this newfangled business was _my_ idea.” He pulled Elliott in toward him and said, “It’s the fresh blood, you see. I haven’t worked with someone this young in decades. 007, this is Elliott, my newest protégé. Elliott, this is James Bond, 007.” Boothroyd turned back to Bond. “I was just telling him about the double-0 section. He seemed to think I was joking.”

“Elliott,” Bond said, extending a hand. Elliott took it, shaking firmly. The shock had worn off, replaced by that cool mask of his. Bond knew better, though. Elliott was watching him carefully now, scanning his every move. Bond had the upper hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Elliott said, voice just a little too low to be polite. He dropped Bond’s hand as soon as he could, though Bond kept a grip on him for a few seconds longer, staring at him. Elliott stared right back.

Boothroyd, obtuse as ever, missed the tension between the two of them and barreled along: “What brings you down here, my good man? A new operation, perhaps? Though surely not—not so soon after your return! M wouldn’t, would she?”

Bond shook his head and said, “Not today. I simply came by to say hello.”

Boothroyd clapped, pleased with Bond’s answer.

“Well, this is a pleasant surprise! Hello to you too, my boy. But please, don’t go without seeing my newest prototypes. You’ve been gone rather a long time, you know. You simply must see—there’s a lovely Aston Martin just this way, but oh—” Boothroyd cut himself off, shaking his head. “Elliott, so sorry, can you manage by yourself?”

Elliott offered a wry smile. “Of course,” he said, already turning back to the monitors.

“Good, good,” Boothroyd replied, mind already elsewhere. Bond allowed him to pull him along. “He knows these things better than I do, I’ll admit. But James, James, there’s a lovely Aston Martin, and as soon as I started working on it, I thought of you…”

Bond glanced back at Elliott only to find him looking right back.

* * *

As soon as Bond could get free of Boothroyd, he ventured to the double-0 offices. As per usual, no one else was there; Bond knew that more than half of the section was abroad, and to a person they preferred to spend their free time elsewhere.

Still, Bond went straight to his office and locked the door behind him. Bond absolutely intended to find out everything he could about Elliott Hawthorne, and he didn’t want anyone else bothering him while he did so. He logged in, then did a standard search to locate Elliott’s file. There it was, the same as Bond had seen from home. That done, Bond set about bypassing permissions and firewalls. MI6 wasn’t lax with regards to security—far from it, in fact—but Bond had been around long enough to know all of Boothroyd’s tricks. He was finished almost before he began.

The screen flickered, then went dead. Bond froze, staring at the black expanse. At once, a bunch of white pixels appeared in the center of the screen. Bond stared them, watching as they came together to form a cat. It flicked its tail back and forth in a menacing fashion. Below it, a caption appeared.

_Unauthorized access detected._

_Whatever could you be looking for, 007?_

The cursor popped down a line and sat blinking. Bond took the initiative to try to type.

“Why don’t you come down here and we can talk?” Bond murmured as he typed. The response was instantaneous.

 _I am everywhere_.

Bond huffed, then wrote back, “Elliott, I presume.”

 _Correct_.

For a long moment, neither of them wrote anything.

 _Do not try this again_.

“Why?” Bond asked. On the screen, the cat hissed at him, then scampered away. All text vanished, leaving behind that blank black expanse. Bond tried to get it to do something, anything at all, but it refused to operate. He smacked it once, but nothing happened.

 _See?_ appeared in the middle of the screen. There was the cursor again, waiting for Bond’s response.

“Remote shutdown isn’t anything new,” Bond wrote back.

The screen went entirely black again, then blindingly white. Bond blinked, only to discover that it _wasn’t_ entirely white—Elliott had pulled up a profile—Bond’s.

 _I see you_ , Elliott wrote, the text appearing off to the side. _I know everything about you._

Bond scanned over the familiar—and carefully selected—information, then snorted.

“Do you really?” he wrote back. Elliott didn’t respond immediately. “Look harder. What’s missing?”

Elliott didn’t respond for several long moments, no doubt scanning the file. Bond’s only true file was written and locked in M’s office; this one lacked all of his operations and most of his background. “You’re not the only one trying to hide something,” Bond wrote.

_What makes you think that?_

“Elliott Hawthorne + brother = ?”

 _Touché_ appeared at long last, and if Bond wasn’t mistaken, the letters were slightly smaller.

“Some things you can only learn from being face to face,” Bond wrote.

 _Others require a softer touch_.

“Some would say yours is the harder of the two.”

 _Says the man with the gun_.

“Says a boy who still has spots.”

_My age has nothing to do with my proficiency._

“And offers you no advantage.”

 _My way is the way of the future_.

“Are you going to be pulling the trigger, then?” Bond asked.

 _From a distance_.

“And the targets you can’t reach from there?”

Elliott offered no response.

“Have a drink with me,” Bond said, “if you’re old enough.”

 _You’re too old to hold your liquor_ , Elliott wrote back.

“8 PM, the Binnet.”

_You want me to meet you at a hotel?_

“Did you have somewhere else in mind?” Elliott didn’t respond. “Don’t dress like a uni student and maybe we can have dinner.”

The screen went entirely black again. The computer boomed as it restarted, and Bond was left with a blank log-in screen.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Bond said out loud.

* * *

Bond arrived at the bar of the Binnet one hour early to scope the location. Five exits, including the one through the kitchens. Lots of people, lots of cameras, lots of money. Bond wasn’t anticipating that anything would go wrong, but just in case, there were plenty of eye-witnesses.

He’d only just decided to order himself a drink to while away the time when someone sidled up next to him. Pressed charcoal suit with a subtle pinstripe, crisp white shirt, gold cufflinks. With his hair slicked out of his face and the heady smell of French cologne about him, Bond hardly recognized Elliott.

“Well, hello, stranger,” Bond said. Elliott’s mouth quirked in a smile, and Bond thought, fleetingly: _gorgeous_.

“Evening,” Elliott said. “I was thinking the table by the wall.” He gestured with his head without looking and flagged down the bartender. “Scotch for you?”

“Already have one,” Bond said, “though I wouldn’t say no to another.”

“Good. Grab the table; I’ll be right over.”

Bond nodded, snatching his drink. Elliott’s early arrival changed things. He’d hardly anticipated that Elliott would obey the dress code, much less take pains to ensure that he and Bond could sit and chat over a drink or two. The evening had taken a surprising turn, and as Bond snagged the table he reconsidered his plan. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that Elliott had picked a good spot; neither of them had their back to the room, and exits were easily visible. He’d been trained, that much was clear.

Settled in, Bond gave the situation some thought. He couldn’t let Elliott lie—Bond needed to know who he was and what he was doing with MI6. He’d just about set up a plan by the time Elliott returned with two glasses: a second Scotch for Bond, and red wine for himself.

“Can I trust you haven’t put anything in it?” Bond joked.

Elliott rolled his eyes. “No. I put a healthy dose of rohypnol and intend to have my wicked way with you before you wake up.”

“Excellent,” Bond said. His first drink was nearly gone anyway, so he raised the second. “A toast.”

“A toast,” Elliott echoed.

“To wicked ways,” Bond said, staring at him intently. Elliott’s mouth quivered in what might have been a smile.

“To wicked ways,” he said. They each took a sip of their drinks. “Now, was there a reason you were trying to bypass my encryptions this afternoon, or was it just to get my attention?”

“I figured I already had that,” Bond said. Elliott took a sip of his wine to cover whatever facial expression he might have made. “You seemed awfully eager to meet with me.”

“Did I?” Elliott asked.

“You’re here early,” Bond said.

“So are you,” Elliott shot back.

Bond smiled tightly. A predictable impasse. “Maybe I just don’t trust you.”

“There’s no reason not to,” Elliott said, rolling his shoulders. He tilted his head as he regarded Bond.

“Maybe,” Bond confirmed. “But if that’s all you can offer me, you and I might have something of a disagreement.”

“Are you really so worried I’ll go galavanting across the countryside with state secrets?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Bond said. To couch the admission, he added, “Do you intend to?”

“M trusts me,” Elliott shot back. “Shouldn’t that be good enough for you?”

“M trusts me,” Bond shot back, “and I kill for a living.”

Elliott laughed. His eyes sparkled in the light, and Bond realized—he was enjoying himself. The conversation, though serious, flowed easily, back and forth between the two of them, as simple and as clear as if they’d known each other for years. Bond found himself relaxing into it, drawn to the lovely man seated opposite him. He hoped, for the first time, that Elliott _didn’t_ intend to flee. There was something incredibly attractive about him—about his smile, his demeanour, his entire _self_. Bond wanted more.

“A low bar, then,” Elliott said, “and yet here we are. _Mr. Bond_ ,” he said, voice dropping low for the emphasis, “I see no reason why you can’t go about your business while I go about mine.”

“I can think of a few,” Bond said.

“Oh?” Elliott asked. “Do tell.”

“Your suit.”

“My what?”

Bond allowed himself a moment of silence as Elliott squirmed, waiting for Bond to spring his trap. Bond didn’t keep him waiting long.

“That suit isn’t yours,” he said, “or it wasn’t until a few hours ago. You bought it specifically to come here, likely right after we spoke. You spent time getting ready, thinking about this—what to say, what to do, what to drink. You meant to impress me.”

Elliott’s mouth twitched as he said, “I fail to see how that’s a reason.”

“Don’t you?” Bond asked.

Elliott swallowed. Bait taken.

“No,” Elliott said.

“I think you do,” Bond replied. He took a sip of his scotch, savouring the taste as it slid down his throat. He made a show of it, and he wasn’t disappointed; Elliott watched his lips like the world depended on it.

“I think,” Bond said, “you want an ally, and a reason to stay.”

“What makes you think I need one?” Elliott asked, just a second too late to be convincing.

“Boothroyd and his ways hold no fascination for you,” Bond said, leaning across the table. “You might be willing to wait to replace him, but how long? There’s no guarantee of success.”

“I can do it,” Elliott said, eyes widening even as the admission slipped free.

“But in the meantime,” Bond said, permitting the lapse to slide just for the moment, “you need something interesting. Something,” Bond continued, eyes dropping to Elliott’s lips, “ _attractive_. Something willing to do the things that you won’t.”

“If you’re implying that I meant to use you—” Elliott started.

“Of course not,” Bond said smoothly, eager to soothe those ruffled feathers. “I think you saw an opportunity. I,” Bond said, “just want to know if you understand what you’re asking for, and why.”

Elliott’s looked like he’d nearly stopped breathing. He wet his lips, staring blatantly, and said, “You’re dangerous.” Bond didn’t respond. “I read your file—your real one.”

“And?” Bond asked, eyes flashing. “If you had, you’d know that dangerous doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Elliott blinked, lowering his eyes. Bond couldn’t tell if it was theatrical or genuine, though he found himself hoping for the former.

“You’re right. I’m not doing this for fun,” Elliott murmured, “though if I do have some along the way, it’ll be a benefit.”

“What are you here for?” Bond asked, setting his scotch aside.

“You invited me.”

“No,” Bond said. “MI6. You came here and immediately altered your own file, immediately made contact with Eve, immediately got involved with Boothroyd and M. You came here, alone. You want something. What is it?”

Elliott looked back up at him, peering over his glasses.

“M says I can trust you,” he said. “She’s the one who showed me your file this afternoon. She—she said that you were the best candidate.”

Bond shifted in his seat, careful to keep his body language open—fully body facing Elliott, leaning part of the way across the table. Invested. Was Elliott telling the truth? He looked earnest, but Bond wouldn’t put it past him—not until all of the cards were on the table.

“For what?” Bond asked.

“To find my brother.”

Elliott, sitting under the light of tens of crystal chandeliers, seemed to positively shimmer as he spoke. It took some of the shock value out of what he’d just said. Bond set aside his drink.

“Your…” he started. He glanced around.

“No one’s here eavesdropping,” Elliott murmured. “I didn’t, as you assumed, come alone. I told M we were meeting here tonight. The perimeter’s covered.”

“I didn’t notice anyone.”

“Maybe you’re getting old.”

Anger flared in Bond—masked, to be sure, but there, burning strong and vibrant in his chest. “You may wish to reconsider your thinking,” Bond said. “You are asking an _old_ man to help with your family troubles. Hardly my line of work.”

“It is when a trigger needs to be pulled,” Elliott said blithely, as if he were discussing the weather.

Bond blinked at him and said, “You want me to find and kill your brother.”

“No!” Elliott’s eyes were wide with shock. “Not him—whoever got him involved in this mess.”

Bond tilted his head, beckoning for him to continue, and Elliott uncrossed his legs and leaned over the table.

“Listen to me,” Elliott said. “Nathan’s not the most brilliant man alive, but he’s always had a keen eye for money. There was something wrong with our financials—the numbers didn’t add up, his salary and mine with all of our expenses. There was an outside revenue stream, something big. I confronted him three months ago and he disappeared.”

“Nathan’s your—”

“Brother, yes,” Elliott interjected.

“So you think he was funneling money,” Bond said.

“I _know_ he was. Through MI5, to cover his tracks. Someone put him up to this, and I want to know who. They’re probably behind his disappearance.”

“MI5 does their own internal investigations,” Bond said. “What does M want with this?” Bond strongly suspected the answer was _nothing_ and that she had not, in fact, been told, but Elliott replied quickly.

“She wants him found because MI5 has done nothing—there’s been no investigation,” Elliott said. “I went to them already.”

“And?” Bond asked.

Elliott sighed and took a slug of wine, composure slipping.

“If it had gone well, I wouldn’t be sitting across from an assassin, now, would I,” Elliott snapped.

Bond worked his jaw, then sat back. Elliott followed suit, apparently crestfallen.

“You’re not going to do it, are you,” Elliott murmured.

“If M’s so keen this get done, where is she?” Bond demanded. “She doesn’t send missions through third parties, never mind who they are.” Elliott didn’t meet his gaze. “Until I talk to her, we’re done here.”

* * *

“You must be joking.”

“Do I ever, 007?” M asked, eyes sharp. Bond had gone straight from the Binnet to her flat.

“You did tell him to talk to me, then,” Bond said. “You sent him to me—”

“This is a mission that cannot be on the books,” she snapped, interrupting him mid-sentence. She set down her purse with rather more force than necessary and didn’t bother to switch on the lights. Bond watched her move with a scowl. “I would have thought you had enough in your head to understand what I expect of you.” At Bond’s silence, she added, “Clearly, I was mistaken.” Quieter, she continued, “I’ll give it to 006 if it’s so abhorrent to you.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” Bond cut in.

M didn’t so much as look at him as she bustled around. Bond had to follow her in order to hear her.

“No, but your position is most clear,” she said. “Someone else will be given the task.”

“He wants me to do it.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Until I talked to him about you, he didn’t know what you were capable of, much less care,” M spat.

“I’ll do it,” Bond insisted, declining to correct her assumption.

M glared at him, then said, “You like him.” Bond shifted. “ _Christ_. Keep this quiet, and _don’t_ botch it. Get out of my house.”

* * *

Bond left M’s feeling furious—not with himself, or even with her. He wanted another drink, and a good lay, not necessarily in that order.

“Went that well?” Elliott asked. Bond snapped to attention to find Elliott standing in the street, an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

“That stuff will kill you,” Bond said.

Elliott removed the cigarette and stared at it. “I keep trying to quit,” he admitted. “Evenings are the hardest.” He hesitated, then said, “I didn’t follow you here.”

“I didn’t say that you did.”

“I was just coming to tell her that you weren’t willing to take it on,” Elliott said lamely, as if Bond hadn’t spoken.

Bond resisted the urge to fidget or to stuff his hands in his pockets like an errant schoolboy.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

“No, you said you had to ask first,” Elliott said, smiling slightly. He crushed the unlit cigarette underfoot, rubbing the slick soles of his oxfords against the curb. “From what I was given to understand, you’re a fan of asking forgiveness, not permission.”

“You are aware of the severity of what you’ve asked for,” Bond said.

“Of course,” Elliott shook his head. “I didn’t mean to give the impression I take this lightly.” Bond sighed, his breath fogging in the cold air.

“I’ll take care of it for you,” he said. “I’ll find your brother.”

Elliott shot him a look, but Bond couldn’t read it for the dark. He wished he’d had some light by which to decipher it. He had a feeling it had been important.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Elliott said, inclining his head. “Good evening.” He made to cross the street and leave Bond behind.

“Let me drive you home,” Bond said. Elliott stopped, turning his head slightly. “It’s late.”

“An astute observation,” Elliott said. “Maybe I don’t want you to know where I live.”

Bond left the obvious— _I could find out if I wanted to_ —unsaid, and instead offered, “You could take my car home.”

Elliott swiveled to stare him full in the face at that. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “You don’t trust me further than you can throw me, but you’d let me drive your car.”

Bond smiled and said, “I could throw you pretty far. You’re not the only one looking to have a little fun with their business.”

Elliott snorted, then nearly doubled over. Bond came to his side before he realized that Elliott was laughing hysterically, hardly breathing he was laughing so hard.

“D-does that-t actually work— _work_ for you?” Elliott asked, gasping. Even in the dark, his face was obviously red.

Bond grinned and said, “Every once and a while.

Elliott stood up, attempting to stifle his laughter with the back of his hand. To Bond’s delight, it wasn’t working.

“Very well, then.” Elliott extended his arm dramatically. “Take me home.”

Bond took his hand. The back of it was dry but otherwise smooth; his fingers were long and bony. _Pianist’s hands_ , Bond thought. He wondered if Elliott had ever played. Before he could give it too much thought, he looped their arms together and led him to the car.

* * *

Elliott lived on Ilchester Place, to Bond’s carefully masked surprise.

“My parents’ old house,” Elliott explained, unprompted. Bond wondered if Elliott was ashamed of the house. Possibly. “My brother used to live there, but…well.” Elliott grimaced. “I moved in when he left. Utilities are beastly but it’s paid for.”

Bond pulled up to the curb. The house was an enormous _thing_ , ominous and huge in the night.

“That’s it, then,” Elliott said, unbuckling.

“Oh?” Bond asked.

Elliott swallowed, perhaps considering the merits of inviting Bond up or not. He opened the passenger door.

“Quite,” he said. “Thank you for the ride.”

“Anytime,” Bond murmured. Elliott shut the door, then made his way to his house. Bond waited until he saw him inside—he did look _good_ , even in the dark—before he pulled away.

* * *

MI5’s files proved easy enough to access. In the privacy of his own flat, Bond scrolled through an endless list of documentation as he nursed a drink, searching for personnel records. Nathan Hawthorne had been MI5 before he went missing; he was bound to be in there somewhere.

The most obvious locations proved fruitless. Nathan wasn’t listed by MI5 as missing, as would be expected, or as deceased, which was where missing agents files ended up after a long enough period of time. He was no longer listed as an active agent within any branch of the organization, either. Bond went through each one again just to be sure, and again came up empty-handed.

All that was left were the discharged agents.

“Discharged”. A pretty word for someone who’d been fired, or quit, or else had left the organization with somewhat less distinction than merited explanation. Hesitantly, Bond began his search.

Almost immediately, he found Nathan’s file. Bond scrolled through it, looking for anything that might help. His photograph revealed he didn’t look that much like Elliott; his face was rounder, and there was an odd flat quality to his eyes. Neither Elliott nor any other family members were listed anywhere. Nathan himself was listed simply as an ex-employee with no explanation as to his termination of employment. Bond could see no record of where he’d gone after MI5, or anything after the termination date.

The date gave Bond pause. He thought back to dinner at the Binnet—Elliott had told him Nathan had disappeared three months ago—last November. The file listed Nathan’s employment termination in January of last year.

Bond sat back, staring at the screen. Nathan stared back, expressionless in the still image.

“Where did you go?” Bond murmured. Nathan’s photograph didn’t respond.

Bond finished his drink and fished for his mobile. He thumbed a familiar number and waited.

“ _Ah_ —Bond, what do you want?” Moneypenny snapped.

“Hope I’m not interrupting something,” Bond said, grinning. He could hear the rustle of fabric and the heavy pants of someone else; he most certainly had.

“This better be good or I’m hanging up,” Moneypenny said darkly.

“Who’s that?” Bond heard from the other end of the line. Moneypenny shushed them.

“I need you to tell me everything you remember about Nathan Hawthorne.”

“Nathan—what?” Moneypenny asked. “Stay there—Bond? You still there?”

“Of course.”

“Nathan Hawthorne. Christ it’s been a long time. You mean Elliott’s brother, right? What’s this about?”

“Just curious,” Bond lied.

“Bullshit.” Moneypenny huffed, then said, “I was never close to Nathan. Elliott and I spent most of our time alone.”

From the other end: “ _Who’s Elliott?_ ”

“Someone a damn bit better company than you,” Moneypenny hollered back. To Bond, she said, “Elliott admired him.”

“Anything else?” Bond asked.

“It’s been decades,” Moneypenny said. “Don’t you _dare_ make a glib remark about that, either. We were kids, and Nathan was older than both of us. He never really talked to me.”

“Thanks,” Bond said.

“You going to tell me what this is about?”

“Don’t you have to get back to shagging so-and-so?” Bond teased.

Moneypenny retaliated by hanging up. Bond snorted. He’d need to send her a bottle of champagne in lieu of apology for ruining her evening in. Hopefully the fellow didn’t take things the wrong way, though from what Bond could hear he most certainly had.

On Bond’s laptop, Nathan Hawthorne remained eerily lit, staring at nothing and everything. Bond looked over the file one more time and was about to call it all useless when he caught sight of a signature at the bottom of the document: authorization for discharge. The cursive was entirely illegible, but underneath the flowing mess of script was printed a name: Nicholas H. Cavendish.

Bond did a new search, this time searching for Cavendish. He showed up in the current employee files as an executive within the financial branch.

_“There was something wrong with our financials—the numbers didn’t add up, his salary and mine with all of our expenses. There was an outside revenue stream, something big. I confronted him three months ago and he disappeared.”_

Bond fingered his empty glass as he closed his laptop. Tomorrow, he’d have to pay dear old Cavendish a visit.


	2. Act II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond digs deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a thousand thanks to castillon02 for looking this over early on and helping me get through the biggest of big blocks!
> 
> **Warning** : this chapter contains upsetting minor character death, both described and not. If you'd like to warn yourself in advance, please check the end for notes.

Nicholas Cavendish was not a very complicated man. He ate breakfast with his family in the morning—Bond could make a wife plus two daughters from his position across the street. The children were quite young—hardly in their teens, Bond guessed, if that. They adored their father, and based on how Cavendish interacted with them, it was easy to see why. He held both of them in his arms, laughing and swinging them around. He kissed his wife and held her with just as much affection, the kind that Bond had found over the years couldn’t be faked or mimed. Cavendish’s love for his family was clear.

When it was time to go, though, Cavendish had a driver take him to MI5 Headquarters. Bond could see the professional veneer slip into place before he even stepped into the car. His wife was similarly whisked away, as were the children, presumably off to school. The house, it seemed, remained vacant throughout much of the day.

Bond sat in an unmarked car, a window rolled down to let in some air, and considered his options. He could, as he had originally planned, follow Cavendish to MI5 Headquarters and try to listen in on his activity. He doubted he’d be able to gain access to the building without turning heads, and if Cavendish proved to be the least bit skittish, he’d clam up faster than Bond could smile.

Alternatively, there was the house—currently unoccupied.

It didn’t take long for Bond to make up his mind. Better to do it while the children weren’t home. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. Moneypenny answered on the second ring.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself,” she said, obviously cross.

“Incredibly. I need Elliott’s number.”

“What for? He doesn’t like to give it out.”

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Bond said smoothly. “He and I had a little chat last night. I just need to ask him a question.”

“Tell me you didn’t _threaten_ Elliott,” Moneypenny groused. “He’s one of us.”

“Of course not. He needed a favor is all,” Bond said. “Nothing too complicated. Something’s come up, though, and I need a spot of help.”

Moneypenny sighed, and Bond knew he had her.

“Fine,” she said, “but if I catch hell about this, you better be ready to pay for it.”

“Always.”

Moneypenny hung up, but the text with the number came through almost immediately. Bond added the contact, noting that the picture attached to the file had come through as well. It was an old photograph, taken when Moneypenny and Elliott were both kids. They sat, pudgy-faced and smiling in the grass, hugging one another tightly. Bond smiled at it even as he made the call.

“Hawthorne,” Elliott said.

“Good morning,” Bond replied.

A curse, and then, “How did you—?”

“Our mutual friend,” Bond said. “I need a favor.”

“You must be joking.”

“It’s about your brother. Are you anywhere near a computer?”

Elliott didn’t say anything for a moment, and then, “Yes. What do you need?”

“Nicholas Cavendish. MI5. I need to know what his home security system looks like.”

“His—you must be joking.”

“Not in the slightest. It’s important.”

“This isn’t legal,” Elliott protested. Bond had a number of responses on hand, but he settled for silence. “Fine. Give me a moment and don’t hang up.” Bond heard as Elliott put him on speaker. “Should I ask why you’re looking into a senior administrator of our sister organization?”

“Probably not,” Bond said, “but I’m sure we can discuss it over dinner this evening provided all goes smoothly.”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Maybe.”

Elliott snorted and didn’t respond. Bond waited, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. A solid minute and a half passed before Elliott spoke again.

“All right. I’m assuming you need to know how to get inside safely?”

“That would be the idea,” Bond said.

Elliott laughed and said, “What do you know, you do have some sense of tact.”

“Who says otherwise?”

“Everyone I’ve spoken to of you. I would have supposed you to take the battering ram approach.”

“You wound me.”

“I doubt it’s that easy,” Elliott countered easily. “The front door is locked with a keypad—eight digits: 12070309.”

“Right,” Bond said. “Anything else inside?”

“Not that I can see. It doesn’t seem that Mr. Cavendish is expecting a double-0 agent to assail his home.”

“Our targets rarely do,” Bond said. “I’ll call if I find anything.”

Bond shoved his mobile into his pocket and got out of the car. As he crossed the street, he looked again at the house. It was well-kept and charming, if stereotypical. The lawn had been trimmed recently, and enormous azaleas bloomed underneath the front windows. Ivy crawled up the brick on one side, and the shutters and sills had a fresh coat of paint.

Bond looked to the keypad on the door. It appeared to be a retrofit, as might have been expected; there were two keyholes on the door itself, but the keypad sat off to one side, its slim profile almost invisible in the shadow of the door. He punched in the code; the door _click_ ed. Without looking back, Bond entered.

Even with the lights off, the foyer felt airy and somehow light. A plush rug lay over dark wood floors, and a mirror hung over a narrow table for keys and gloves. Bond ventured further into the house after first admiring the small chandelier that hung from the ceiling.

Stairs led up to the first floor, something Bond bypassed for the moment. To his left was a dining room, and beyond that a kitchen. Another flight of stairs led up—old servants’ quarters, Bond supposed, so that they could come and go without using the main staircase. A hall led to a door which in turn took one down to the basement. Again, Bond bypassed that for the moment. Along the right side of the house was a sitting area with a fireplace and a small piano. A practice book sat open, obviously well-used. Beyond the sitting area was a sunroom.

Nothing of interest here. Bond ventured upstairs.

There were the children’s bedrooms; drawings hung on the doors, rendered lovingly in colored pencil. Based on the “signatures” on the pieces, Isabella liked unicorns and space, and Daphne liked flowers and dinosaurs. Good taste, Bond thought. It was a shame their father seemed to be involved in something dubious.

Past them, though—there was the master bedroom, and beyond, an office.

Bond stood before the desk, eyeing the materials scattered over the top. Most of it was legalese, forms about mergers and civil suits—the wife’s work, probably. Indeed, at the top of one of the papers he saw _Caroline Cavendish_. Not what he was looking for.

Bond pulled out the gloves he kept in an interior pocket and gingerly sat down. He carefully pulled out one drawer at a time and searched the contents. Files of old tax returns—they showed no funds out of the norm, but then again if Cavendish had even half a brain he wouldn’t put illicit income anywhere the government might see it. Paid bills and school records, information about car repairs—useless.

Above the files, though—that drawer seemed shallower than it ought to have been.

Bond emptied the extra pens, an Allen wrench, rulers, paper clips, and assorted office supplies from the drawer, then felt along the bottom. There was an indentation near the back, awkwardly shaped and ridged. Bond peered inside and tried to figure out how best to open it. Pressure didn’t seem to work, but he didn’t want to press too hard lest he trigger some sort of safety feature. There had to be some sort of trick, something subtle.

Bond looked to the back of the drawer. There was a bolt back there, or what looked to be one, screwed into the “bottom”. That didn’t belong there.

He went through the office supplies he’d removed until he found the Allen wrench again. Bond slid it into the bolt and twisted as if to unscrew it. A _click_ , eerily reminiscent of the front door, and the “bottom” of the drawer popped up.

* * *

Bond had much practice playing the waiting game. He’d spent months on stakeouts, silently collecting data. Once, in Chicago, he’d posed as a writer to monitor a lawyer from the café across from his office. He’d actually managed to finish a novel during that operation. _Tuesday’s Diamonds_ hadn’t sold spectacularly, but he had it on good authority that M had purchased and read a copy. Furthermore, he suspected she was the source of at least one glowing review of the work.

Throughout the hours that followed the opening of the false drawer, Bond did not write, though he did familiarize himself with the entirety of what he’d found. He took picture after picture of the once-hidden documents, careful to make sure each and every line was legible and that nothing but the paper appeared in the frames. No timestamp, either—best to have as little information attached to these files as possible.

When that was done, Bond still had hours to kill. He suspected that Cavendish would only leave MI5 headquarters at the end of standard office hours, if not later. That left plenty of time for further exploration.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Bond rifled through the cabinets. There were pounds upon pounds of coffee in the freezer—evidently, either Nicholas or Caroline had something of an addiction. Not much in the way of liquor, though; Bond saw just two lonely bottles of pinot noir and chianti. Vodka and vermouth sat on a counter next to the olive oil and a large canister of salt; Bond assumed those were for cooking, or so they hoped; they weren’t of particularly good quality. The refrigerator at least was well-stocked. Nothing out of place.

It occurred to Bond as he rifled around, satisfying his own idle curiosity, that he had not yet checked the basement. Bond moved to the top of the stairs and looked down into the dark. He’d always thought a dark basement hiding secrets horribly cliché, but time and time again, there it was.

He reached for the light switch as he went down, and the stairs brightened considerably. The basement, he soon found, was a massive thing. Though unfinished, someone had clearly put in a lot of work to make it as comfortable and cozy as possible. A series of rugs covered the cement of the floor, and there was a big area that seemed to have been designed as a play space for the children. There were dolls and dollhouses alongside garishly-coloured plastic dinosaurs. A few model airplanes, off-kilter and over-glued, hung proudly from the ceiling.

The rest of the basement seemed to be the domain of Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Cavendish. There was the laundry and a second refrigerator. Another room, this one full of books, sat tucked into one end. Bond found himself drawn to it on instinct.

Books drew out curious things in people. He’d learned early in his training that you could tell a lot about a person by what they bought and what they read, not to mention what they read repeatedly.

Bond could make out two main “sections” of the library. Historical nonfiction dominated one of the walls; he counted no less than seven different biographies of Churchill and at least eight of Thatcher. There were books on the wars wedged next to enormous treatises dedicated to various kings and queens. Victoria played heavy here, it seemed. The other half of the library seemed devoted to fiction and fantasy. _Paradise Lost_ , _The Lord of the Rings,_ and _The Spy Who Came In From The Cold_ all appeared to be well-loved favourites. Rather than the nonfiction section, which had been organized by subject, these were arranged by author, and alphabetically at that. It must have taken hours of time to put together. Bond couldn’t imagine the amount of work it must have taken to add to it.

One book in particular caught Bond’s eye— _Infinite Jest_. The bright blue of the spine and the yellow of the lettering offended his eye in some way, but that wasn’t the problem. For such a large book, Bond would have supposed it to have multiple creases from a reading. A copy of _Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell_, a book of comparable size, had so many creases, the spine had been bent into an arc. _Infinite Jest_ , however, had but a single crease, almost perfectly in the center. Bond eased it out of the case and opened it.

_Infinite Jest_ had been hollowed out on the inside, likely with a knife. The edges were jagged and not entirely straight. Someone had sawed at it diligently, that much was obvious. Inside were thousands upon thousands of pounds—no, more than that. The bill denominations were all different and tightly wadded, and Bond had some trouble with the mental arithmetic.

He closed the book and tucked it under his arm. One last look around the room told him he’d missed nothing, and a glance at his watch told him he had several more hours to burn.

It was a shame about the butchery of the text, he thought. He might have finally read _Infinite Jest_.

* * *

Hours went by before Bond heard the front door open. The children chattered as they came inside, bubbly and loud. Isabella had given a presentation on something, Bond gathered. They’d had demonstrations in Daphne’s science class, and she claimed that the instructor had made a fireball appear out of thin air. Caroline laughed at that, teasing her children gently. Bond might have mistaken the entire exchange for an excerpt from an American 1950’s television serial.

Approximately thirty minutes later, Cavendish came home. Bond heard the children crowing, as eager to tell him about their day as they had been to tell their mother. During a brief lull, Bond carefully, deliberately, pressed down on a loud, loose floorboard.

The children didn’t stop their stories, and no one came at once, but Bond knew it was just a matter of time. He ran a finger over the cover of _Infinite Jest_ and counted the seconds until Cavendish spoke.

“—to use the one upstairs,” he said, voice growing louder as he approached the base of the stairs. “I’ll just be a moment.”

Caroline offered a response Bond couldn’t fully hear, but Cavendish was climbing the stairs, and that was all he needed to know.

“I told you people,” Cavendish hissed as he crossed the bedroom, heading straight for the office, “not to come to my—home.” He stuttered as he turned on the lights and caught sight of Bond. His eyes skittered over the scene—Bond, the book, the file. Cavendish swallowed.

“Evening,” Bond said by way of greeting.

“Who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Cavendish squinted at him. No doubt he’d seen Bond’s file before. Five’s administrators were briefed on double-0 section operations in the event that one bled over onto home soil.

“You,” Cavendish said. “You’re one of—” He didn’t finish the thought.

“I’m here,” Bond said, “to have a little chat.” He tapped the cover of _Infinite Jest_. “Worried something might happen?”

“You don’t have a right to be here,” Cavendish sputtered.

“Darling?” Caroline called up the stairs. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, you know how it is,” Cavendish called back down. He didn’t look away from Bond. “Go ahead and get started without me.”

“Do you need help?”

“No! No,” Cavendish said. “I’m fine. I mean it.”

Bond listened and heard Caroline move away from the base of the stairs.

“What do you want?” Cavendish asked, voice softer. “I can—there are options here, see.” Bond nodded. He did see. “Name your price. We’ve—got everything you might want. I can make you a partner.”

“In this?” Bond asked, holding up the file. Cavendish stared at it as Bond flipped it back open for show. “You’ve been running this drug ring for…years, now.” He tossed the file back onto the table. “Your profits are lower than usual.”

“Brexit,” Cavendish spit. “But—it’s nothing we can’t recover, I assure you. We’ll be back in the billions soon enough.”

“I’m not interested in your profit margin,” Bond said smoothly. He stroked the front of the file as though rubbing out the creases. “I’m more interested in your partners.” Cavendish opened his mouth, but Bond didn’t give him a chance to continue. “In particular, Nathan Hawthorne. I’m curious as to where he’s gone.”

Cavendish swallowed, eyes darting to the space over Bond’s left shoulder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cavendish said softly. Even the greenest recruit could tell he was lying. Who in the entirety of MI5 had decided that he was a good choice? “I don’t know a Nathan Hawthorne.”

“You signed his discharge papers from Five,” Bond said. “You didn’t list a reason, but it’s easy enough to guess.”

“You—you think you sit there in my house—in my _house_ , while my wife and children are downstairs—and—and—”

“I need to know where he is,” Bond said.

“I don’t know,” Cavendish said. “I never know.”

“So you do know him.”

Cavendish closed his eyes.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said finally. “It was Nathan’s. He knew—he knew.” Cavendish fiddled with his watch, and Bond wondered what it was that Nathan had known. “He said all I needed to do was look the other way a few times and I’d have more money than I could spend in a lifetime, and I—he asked me to fire him. Made me do it, told me to keep it quiet—” He took a stabilizing breath. “He was going to turn me in if I didn’t. The money was good and he didn’t want me ruining things for the both of us.”

“And?” Bond pressed.

“And? I kept my mouth shut is damn well what happened,” Cavendish said. “I’ve got a wife and two children and I was broke. What do you expect me to do? I’ve just been doing what he told me to do. That’s it. All of that—” he gestured at the file, “—all of that is his doing. I just did the legwork, shook a few hands, turned a few heads. That’s it. I swear, I’m not the bad one here.”

“Where is he?” Bond asked.

“I told you,” Cavendish said, “I don’t know. I never know where he is. It’s as much for my protection as his.”

“The other one—Gerald Zeiller,” Bond asked. His name had appeared in the files countless times, further underscoring Nathan’s absence from them.

“He won’t know either,” Cavendish said, “he just works supply.”

Bond thought for a moment. Downstairs, the children burst into laughter.

“You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you,” Cavendish said, the words coming out in a breath. “That’s why they send people like you.”

“Generally speaking,” Bond replied. He was deciding how to proceed when a mobile rang. Importantly, it was not his own.

Cavendish flinched.

“I have to take this,” he said.

“Who is it?” Bond asked.

“I don’t know,” Cavendish replied, “it’s one of the numbers for the…business. It’s a different person each time.”

Bond nodded once, and Cavendish reached into his pocket.

“Speaker,” Bond ordered.

Cavendish dutifully punched the button.

“Hello?” he asked, his voice wavering slightly. “Who is this?”

“We need to meet,” a man, voice lightly modulated with some sort of device, said. “Abney Park, 0700 tomorrow.”

“Who is this?” Cavendish repeated, slightly frantic.

“Don’t be late.”

“Wait!” Cavendish cried when Bond shook his head.

_Tonight_ , Bond mouthed.

“Wait, I—that doesn’t work,” Cavendish said. “Tonight. It has to be tonight.”

“This is not up for discussion,” the man replied.

“Tonight,” Cavendish said, voice firmer. “One hour. That’s the best I can do.”

The speaker paused for a moment, then said, “Very well.”

* * *

Abney Park was little more than a square with a handful benches—hardly a park, at least in Bond’s estimation. Intersecting footpaths met at corners and in the middle, where a small fountain bubbled. Buildings surrounded the park across each street; Bond couldn’t cover each and every window. To complicate matters, there were _people_.

Not Five, then, not that Bond had expected so much. They would have cleared the park for something like this.

Bond watched as Cavendish climbed out of the back seat of his car. Even in the poor light, Bond could tell he was sweating. He couldn’t stop swiveling his head back and forth. Once more, Bond wondered how Cavendish had even cleared his first interview with MI5, much less gotten himself a plush administrative role.

He didn’t have long to wonder. The gunfire began moments later.

* * *

Bond was halfway through his first cup of coffee when someone threw a paper down onto the table in front of him before sliding into the opposite booth.

“Was that you?” Elliott asked, snatching up a napkin. Bond cast an eye over the article. A photograph of Nicholas Cavendish and his family took up most of the front page. Cavendish had died from multiple gunshot wounds; Caroline, Daphne, and Isabella Cavendish had been found dead in their home several hours later when police went to investigate. Mr. Cavendish had no known enemies and had never made trouble, though an unnamed source suggested that he had a bit of a gambling problem in the past. That would explain what it was that Nathan had known.

“No,” Bond said. “Three, four shooters. They were waiting for him in the park.”

“But you were there,” Elliott said. Bond pushed the paper away and took another drink of his coffee. It was just a little too sweet, but he couldn’t complain. The fellow who owned the place always gave Bond a discount when he came in because he’d fixed a leak in the ceiling for the price of a beer when he’d been between missions and looking for anything to take the edge off.

“What did he say?” Elliott asked, continuing as if Bond had replied. “I assume you didn’t have me help you with a _personal_ project.”

“I ought to,” Bond muttered, sour. Elliott fixed him with those eyes of his, and Bond slumped over a little.

_It wasn’t my idea. It was Nathan’s_.

No. Bond couldn’t lead with that. If it proved true, it was cruel. He would confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt before he so much as suggested Nathan was in the wrong.

“And?” Elliott pressed. “I don’t have all day. We’re going through old prototypes—cleaning house, as it were—not to mention the fact that I have to go back over my trails to make sure I don’t end up implicated in a god-forsaken _homicide_.”

“And nothing,” Bond said. “He didn’t know anything.”

Elliott stared at him for a second, then said, “You’re joking.” When Bond didn’t respond, Elliott leaned forward. “You’re telling me that Nicholas Cavendish, a senior administrator at MI5, a family man who played golf with the PM before he resigned, was gunned down in a public park after you spoke to him because _he didn’t know anything?_ ”

Bond pursed his lips.

“Tell me,” Elliott said. “Oh—for fuck’s _sake_ , Bond.”

“Gerald Zeiller,” Bond said.

“Who?”

“Cavendish was part of a drug ring,” Bond said finally. “Cavendish was the in. He made sure no one looked twice at the shipments. Zeiller’s the supplier.”

“Gerald Zeiller,” Elliott said. He snatched Bond’s cup from his hand, took a sip, and pushed it back. “ _Christ_. You drink that voluntarily?”

Bond flagged down the waitress and got himself a refill. Elliott worked admirably to not make a face in front of her.

“A tea for him,” Bond said.

“What kind?”

“Earl Grey, please,” Elliott said primly. When she walked away, he asked, “How did you…?”

“Process of elimination. Don’t take my coffee again.” Elliott nodded. “Zeiller. I need to know where he is.”

“Why would the supplier of a drug ring know about my brother?”

“He wouldn’t, but I think M would be pleased to know that the biggest supplier in western Europe just made a mistake, wouldn’t you?” Bond asked. “Might even fast-track you if you’re the one to report it.”

Several expressions played over Elliott’s face before he said, “I didn’t ask you to help me with my career, just to find my brother.”

“All in due time,” Bond said. “This first.”

“So this _is_ personal.”

“It is now,” Bond said.

Elliott glanced down at the paper. Bond couldn’t look at it.

“Why were you there, anyway?” Elliott asked finally.

“I thought he might know something about your brother,” Bond replied.

“So it _wasn’t_ personal?” Elliott asked. “Now it is? Why? What did you find?”

Bond pursed his lips, resolutely silent. Elliott tossed his hands in the air and looked to the ceiling.

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” he asked.

The waitress came back around. She slid the tea over to Elliott and poured Bond a fresh cup of coffee. He stared at it as it steamed.

“Months,” Elliott said quietly. “ _Months_ , I’ve been trying to find him. I’ve examined every angle, I’ve searched every document—” He cut himself off and ran a hand through his hair. Bond watched and forced himself to stay silent. “And now—now there are four dead people, two of them _children_ , and you’re going to sit here and tell me nothing?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Elliott hit the table hard enough that his tea sloshed over the edge of his mug. Bond didn’t so much as flinch.

“You,” Elliott said primly, “are a terrible liar.”

“I’ll let you know when I have anything concrete,” Bond said.

“Of course you will.” Elliott grabbed the paper and folded it in half. He slid out of the booth with rather less grace than he’d slid in, and then he was gone.

Bond stared at Elliott’s steaming mug of tea. _Earl Grey_ , he thought. Bergamot, citrus, and smoke.

What a disaster.

* * *

1424, 13-2-17

**EH:** Hotel am Stephansplatz, Vienna.

**JB:** I’ll be on a plane within the hour. If M asks, I’m following a lead. Won’t be back for a bit.

**EH:** You still won’t tell me what you’ve found.

**JB:** Nothing yet.

_Read: 1425_

 

1428, 13-2-17

**EH:** You’re a liar.

_Read: 1428_

 

Bond thought of the exchange as he stepped out into the street. He tipped the cabbie handsomely and watched as he sped away into the rush of cars.

Bond had always liked Vienna. It had kept up with the times, what with its traffic and its modern façades, but past that lived the wreckage of the old city, its palaces and its slums alike. It reminded him of what it had once been: proud and beautiful, flawed and dangerous, ever teetering between disaster and decadence. Vienna belonged to lovers more than Venice or Paris ever could; more than that, perhaps, it belonged to thieves. Bond had been around the world, but his fondness for Vienna had never waned.

Zeiller was here, somewhere. Bond had gone through each and every page of Cavendish’s files searching for other possible links to check, but Zeiller was the only certainty. The others had all had aliases— _Dreadnaught_ and _Horizon_ and _Nethergate_ , to name a few. That said, Cavendish had been important enough to warrant his own, too: _Zero_. Whoever had killed him for meeting with Bond could easily have cut those threads.

Zeiller and Nathan were the only two definitive possibilities. Bond hoped beyond hope that Zeiller had been behind the hit because if he hadn’t…

As it was, it wouldn’t be pretty. While Bond was sure Cavendish had told the truth, he’d need something more concrete to convince Elliott. A dead man’s word that his brother was to blame for a massive smuggling ring that had operated under MI6’s very nose and was likely responsible for some of the worst of the imports to date? Elliott would turn up his nose and turn away from Bond at the sound of it, and then they would be back to square one, with Elliott firmly in denial about his brother’s fate and Bond….irrelevant.

Bond shook the thought. He wasn’t important to this story, Elliott and Nathan were. He had no business worrying about Elliott’s response to the inevitable, bare-faced truth, and yet he did. Why, he wondered?

Better not to think about it. The operation had to come first. He’d learned that the hard way.

He straightened his jacket and checked the street address. Two blocks to the hotel he’d booked into, and then he was set to begin.

* * *

In his hotel room, Bond began his search. Zeiller had checked into the Hotel am Stephansplatz under an assumed name. It was the hotel’s policy to show picture ID when checking in, Bond found; he also discovered that their security system could best be described as _laughable_.

The image Bond found himself faced with was a bit different from what he’d expected. Zeiller was a pasty-faced man with deep-set eyes, a poorly-groomed moustache, and thin, pale lips. He looked like your standard crackhead if Bond were being honest about it: poorly kept, manic eyes, jumpy appearance. He didn’t look like the type who could orchestrate _anything_ , much less an organized hit on a British security administrator on British soil.

Zeiller hadn’t checked in with anyone that Bond could see, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have security with him somewhere. If he were half as important as Cavendish had suggested, he wouldn’t be traveling alone.

He tossed his laptop onto the cushions beside him and sprang to his feet. No time like the present.

* * *

Hotel Am Stephansplatz’s architecture left much to be desired, no matter how chic the inside supposedly was. The cathedral positioned across the plaza from it put it to shame, though Bond supposed that was the way of most things when compared to cathedrals. He nearly mistook the hotel for a shop, and not a particularly nice one at that.

No matter. Bond set up across from it, just in the shadow of the cathedral, and began to wait. Zeiller’s image burned behind his eyelids when he blinked. There were people everywhere—Zeiller had evidently gone for the herd protection approach to travel—but Bond had ultimate faith in himself. His eyes were as keen as ever. He’d spot Zeiller if he ventured out.

For all of the people in the street, few passed through the hotel doors going one way other the other. It made sense: they were still a few months away from the start of the tourist season. Anyone staying in the hotel was likely staying on business or else unable to travel during the regular times.

Bond waited a good half an hour before he spotted someone. Not Zeiller—no, this one was blond with an angry face. Bond didn’t stare, but he tracked him in his periphery. The blond man, on the other hand, made no pretense of subtlety. After a few painfully long minutes, he pointed his fingers at his own eyes, then gestured at Bond.

Well, fuck.

Bond stood, brushing himself off. He watched the blond man carefully now, saw how the smirk formed on his lips. Had Bond been a lesser man, he might have been frightened.

He wasn’t. He set off across Stephanplatz toward Brandstätte. He could cut west from there and lose the blond man and his no-doubt hidden cohorts in the throng. Bond walked swiftly, scanning the streets as he passed. There was another one—another blond, this one tall and gangly. He, too, stared at Bond as he passed.

Bond needed to move, now.

He swung a swift left, then began to run. He passed _Katholische Kirche St. Peter_ on the right and kept going until he hit a dead end. He darted to the right, then crashed into an open plaza.

_Michaelerplatz_ , Bond thought. Hofburg Palace loomed to his left. There weren’t nearly enough people to get lost in. _Shite, shite shiteshite_ ** _shite_**.

North—north was his best bet. Bond put a good foot under him and made his way across the open plaza. He hadn’t spotted anyone else, but Bond had a feeling that was a bad omen rather than a good one. He’d just reached Herrengasse when a car pulled around the corner directly in front of him.

Momentum carried him clean into the open rear door. He hit his head against the far door, collapsing across two people. He struggled, but they already had him prone. Hands wrested his own into the small of his back, and a bag went over his head.

So much for that plan.

* * *

They’d barely secured him to a chair when they ripped the bag off. Bond shut his eyes against the bright light of his new surroundings. He had to hand it to his kidnappers, they’d done a fairly good job. They’d driven slowly enough that he couldn’t feel when the vehicle turned (though he could hear the horns as other drivers grew angry with their pace) and they hadn’t spoken a single word, either to each other or to him.

Bond waited for the first blow—standard issue for these sorts of things. It didn’t come. He waited longer, braced, but no punches landed.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to acclimate to the light and see what the hell had happened.

Two men stood before him—the gangly blond one and someone Bond hadn’t seen before. They glanced once at each other but didn’t say a word.

“Hello,” Bond said, cheeky as ever. If they weren’t going to start, he would. “I don’t suppose I could get a more comfortable seat.”

One man snorted. The gangly blond rolled his eyes.

“James Bond,” the blond said. Unless Bond was mistaken, the accent was French—or, no, Belgian? “You are not meant to be here.”

“You brought me here,” Bond pointed out sharply. He glanced between the pair. Neither so much as flinched.

“Why have you come?” the blond asked. His voice, Bond noted, was kind, if nasal. “Please, be honest. We’re all busy men.”

“I’m on holiday,” Bond said.

The one man snorted again.

“Right,” the blond said. “I’m going to give you another chance to answer honestly. None of us want trouble, you see.” He smiled as though sympathetic to Bond’s plight. Bond clenched his fists to feel the coil of rope keeping him in place. He’d need to incapacitate one man first, lunge up with the chair swinging…

Carefully, he tried to move the chair. It didn’t budge.

“Bolted to the floor,” the blond man said. “Please, Mr. Bond.”

Bond tried to lurch forward. Both men took two steps back, eyes wide.

Bond relaxed against the chair. He was the one tied down, and they were afraid?

The blond nodded once at his companion, who stepped out of the room moments later. Bond craned his head to get a good look at where he’d gone. From the brief glimpse he received, the man had gone into a hallway. They seemed to be in a hotel, and not a particularly dingy one at that. He wondered it if was Zeiller’s hotel. It didn’t seem to match the aesthetic.

“You’ve made a great deal of trouble for us, Mr. Bond,” the blond man said after a few seconds of silence. “Why?”

“Why?” Bond asked.

“We do no harm to you,” the blond man said. “We’ve taken nothing from you. We’ve always been respectful with our product, never overreached.”

“Is that why your profit margin is so large?” Bond asked.

“It’s large because we are careful,” the blond man said, “and honest.” He frowned at that and added, “We’ve no desire for conflict. There’s no reason why we ought not be allowed to continue our business undisturbed.”

“No reason,” Bond parroted. “You’re joking.”

The blond man smiled and replied, “No, Mr. Bond. Do you have an objection?”

A knock came at the door, and Bond heard the handle turn. He watched as the snorter returned, followed closely by Zeiller himself.

“Hello,” Bond said cheerily. Now they were getting someplace. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Zeiller came to stand before Bond. He used Bond’s seated position to loom over him like some god of addicts. Up close, Bond saw that his eyes were bloodshot and his hands shook; had he really gotten high before coming to interrogate a double-0 agent?

Interrogate seemed to be the wrong word, in retrospect. Bond watched as the blond man and his companion went to stand against the back wall, murmuring to one another. What was the deal here?

“Mr. Bond,” Zeiller said. _Definitely_ high. His eyes flickered like candles in the wind, and something about his voice felt off. “Why must you give my men a hard time?”

“I don’t know, why did they snag me off of the street?” Bond asked.

“You met with Cavendish,” Zeiller said. “He’s dead.”

“I’m aware.”

“Do you know why?”

“Because he betrayed you?” Bond asked. “Or maybe you just didn’t like the color of his tie.”

Zeiller closed his eyes for a few seconds, frowning at something behind his eyelids.

“Because,” he continued, speaking in a slow drawl all of a sudden, “you came looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found.” Bond waited. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh?”

“If you hadn’t,” Zeiller said, “I wouldn’t have known about the brother.”

Bond froze.

“Elliott Hawthorne,” Zeiller said, each and every syllable as clear as machine-gun fire. “Who knew Nathan had a _baby brother_?

“Don’t get me wrong,” Zeiller continued, “I understand. I had a sister once. Crack whore, but family’s family. You do what you have to.” He waved a hand, momentarily distracted by a dust mote. “But you—you’ve put a wrench in our plans, see? Put dear _Elliott_ in the line of fire. Or did you think he’d come out of this clean once his brother dearest’s activities came to light?”

Bond swallowed, and Zeiller cracked a grin. His teeth were perfectly white, almost blindingly so. Something about them reminded Bond of a skull he’d seen in an anatomy class once. He’d seduced the professor’s assistant on a dare, though he’d rather liked her anyway.

“But I’ll make you a deal,” Zeiller said. “This doesn’t have to get any uglier than it’s gotten, see? Dead people are expensive, and killing’s your job, not your sport. You find us a replacement for Cavendish—recompense for stealing him away—and this talk doesn’t leave the room. No one needs to know about Nathan and Elliott. No pushback. Ceasefire.”

Zeiller repeated that word— _ceasefire_ —rolling his tongue along the ‘r’ as though it were hard candy. Bond realized then the biggest problem of all: _Zeiller thought he’d killed Cavendish_.

Bond opened his mouth, yet unsure what he’d say, and the lights went out.

“What the—” someone started to asked. Bond heard the hotel room door open before gunfire flooded his ears.

He tried to duck down to the floor, but the chair gave him very little leeway. The ropes around his middle dug into his abdomen and circulation left his hands before he gave up and waited.

The gunfire stopped, and the lights came back on.

Zeiller lay dead on the floor in front of him. Behind him, the blond man who’d first spoken to Bond lay prone, his throat slit and his body riddled with bullet holes. The blood spray on the wall dripped slowly. The man who’d only snorted at Bond without saying a word was gone.

Bond wrestled with the ropes, all the while looking around the room. He managed to get a hand free at long last, after which the rest was easy. He rubbed his wrists as he looked down at Zeiller. His eyes were wide with shock and fear. Bond found a side arm hidden under his jacket and a utility knife at his side.

A mobile rang, and Bond froze.

It wasn’t his. He didn’t know where his had gone, but the ringtone wasn’t familiar. He elected to ignore it in favor of checking the blond man. No weapons. Had Zeiller been serious about his deal? Impossibly, it seemed so.

The mobile rang again. Bond followed the sound to the hotel room door. A burner sat on the entryway table. Slowly, Bond lifted it to his ear.

“Good afternoon,” an unfamiliar person greeted as soon as Bond did so. “That was a tight spot, wasn’t it?”

“Who is this?” Bond demanded, looking around. No visible cameras, though that didn’t mean much. Blinds and curtains closed, no in.

“You’re going to meet me at Herrengasse 14. You’re going to come now, or else you’re going to miss your chance.”

“My chance for what?” Bond demanded.

The person on the other end laughed.

“After all you’ve been through? A chance to meet Nathan Hawthorne. Come quickly, though. I won’t be staying for long.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicholas Cavendish's wife and children are killed off-screen. Several goons are killed on-screen in canon-typical fashion.


End file.
